


On the Road Again

by nothing_is_beautiful_and_true



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Comedy, End of Season 2 AU, F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Some angst, bit of a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26404789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothing_is_beautiful_and_true/pseuds/nothing_is_beautiful_and_true
Summary: After witnessing the Slayer send her boyfriend to hell, Spike offers to give her a ride home.A re-imaging of the end of Becoming part II.
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers, Spike/Drusilla
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	On the Road Again

**Author's Note:**

> I've been re-watching BtVS and got an itch to dabble in the fandom. So I wrote a oneshot. Hopefully it's okay.

Dru had never weighed much, and in that moment—back in his arms where she belonged—she felt light as a feather. Spike himself was practically floating. Everything had gone better than he could’ve ever imagined. Fancy that, a plan of his, actually working in Sunnydale. The gormless _look_ on Angelus’ stupid face when Spike began wailing on him with a crowbar! Priceless. That was the sort of happy that would’ve lost Spike his soul, had he been cursed with one. 

And now the Slayer and the Poofter were fighting, locked in a struggle that should’ve ended a hell of a lot sooner. Bloody Angelus and his obscene need to play with his food. Spike scoffed, leaning against the archway of the mansion courtyard, clutching his prize, his dark princess, close to his breast.

A brassed off Slayer was a glorious thing to watch. No, not just any Slayer; this one in particular. _She_ was glorious. She moved with the easy grace of a dancer, golden and glowing, arms a blur, sword humming as they crossed blades. In comparison, Angelus was even more the lumbering oaf than usual, his movements slow and ponderous, swinging at her with feral abandon. 

And yet…

“He’s going to kill her,” Spike realized aloud. 

The Slayer was slowly losing ground, slowly being overwhelmed by Angelus’ brute strength.

Some part of Spike rebelled against the revelation. The Slayer was _his_ mark, _his_ kill. Once again, Angelus had swooped in and taken something Spike already staked a claim on. Inconsiderate bastard. Sure, they were evil, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t have _standards_. Those same standards were what had kept Spike from defecting for so long.

Well, that and the chair.

For the briefest of moments, Spike considered intervening. Then he shrugged and strode down the hallway. Not his problem. 

A few paces further and Spike halted. If the Slayer lost after he left, the world would end. Saving Dru was swell and all, but it still wouldn’t be much fun without people. Bollocks. Growling, Spike turned, stalking back toward his front row seat.

He wouldn’t rescue the Slayer. If she couldn’t even defeat Angelus then he’d clearly overestimated her abilities as a fighter. But, just in case, Spike would lurk, and strike from the shadows, sealing Acathla himself if necessary. Send Angelus off to hell with a smile and a song in his undead heart. 

Actually. The more Spike thought about it the more appealing that sounded. Maybe he’d root for the Slayer to lose after all.

… Which was looking pretty likely, considering Angelus had her kneeling on the ground with her own sword pointed at her face. Well then. 

Angelus prattled on, so confident in his victory he decided to start monologuing, at which point Spike decided to stop listening. But he never stopped watching. He watched Angelus strike, watched the Slayer catch the sword with her bare hands—oh, nice touch, Spike would grant her that, real stylish—watched her beat the shit out of that lummox, and then—

And then suddenly they weren’t fighting but instead hugging and crying, which put a major damper on the schadenfreude Spike had been enjoying. Also, hello? Big ugly statue? Apocalypse? C’mon, Slayer, hell wouldn’t exactly wait patiently for shared kissy faces. A fact that became all the more evident as Acathla’s mouth dropped open. 

Spike could tell when she noticed by the stiffening of her shoulders and the increase of her heartbeat. About bloody time, too. They were standing right in front of the damn statue and the gaping portal was kind of hard to miss.

He wondered if the Slayer would have the stones to off Angelus, who’d clearly gotten his soul back somehow. Might be too much of a White Hat for that. Maybe Spike would have to…

… do nothing, apparently. 

_These violent delights have violent ends / And in their triumph die, like fire and powder / Which as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey is loathsome in his own deliciousness / and in the taste confounds the appetite._

The thought rose unbidden, chanted by a voice Spike hadn’t heard in a very, very long time. Not nearly long enough. He gritted his teeth, felt his fangs elongate out of his skull as his demon face burst forth with a snarl. 

It made no sense. Angelus currently had a sword shoved through his heart, arm held out toward the Slayer, slack jawed and dumbfounded as he got sucked into hell. Okay, admittedly, that last part specifically was pretty bloody brilliant, so why did Spike feel so conflicted? 

Angelus without the ‘us’ was supposed to be the Slayer’s love. As much as Spike loathed her, loathed them, he respected love. Love and loyalty. Family. It was something even most evil big bad vampires could appreciate. Well, maybe not most. Certainly not Angelus. But Spike did. 

And yet she’d killed him. Angel. Spike felt somewhat disappointed. 

He never could’ve done that. If forced to choose between Dru or the world, he would’ve flipped the world the bird and walked away. Almost done just that anyway. 

Soft sniffles filled the silence. When Spike scented the air, he caught the tang of tears. The Slayer was crying. So weak, and yet so strong. 

Envy replaced the disappointment. It took a certain strength that Spike would never possess to commit such a selfless act. Not that he wanted to. Didn’t change the fact she’d one upped him, and he’d never be able to return the favor.

Maybe, sometimes, he tired of being love’s bitch. Wasn’t the whole point of becoming a vampire to break away from the shackles of society? Break away from that slow, painful noose slowly constricting about the neck, replace it with plunging fangs and a brilliant flash of glory that spanned eternity?

But his leash was tight as ever, while the Slayer, even through her tears, had never seemed more free. Something deep inside him couldn’t help but admire that.

Oh, how Spike hated her.

She was backing away from the statue, still crying, pathetic little sobs that couldn’t be stifled no matter how hard she tried, coming from a place deep within the chest, slowly turning, turning, and—they made eye contact. 

Spike went very still, as did the Slayer. 

He could kill her. He should kill her. She was in no sound mind to fight: have himself a real good day. Dru would be brassed off when she woke up, and what better way to placate her than with the Slayer’s head on a silver platter? 

Spike didn’t move. For some reason, he couldn’t think clearly. His demon was snarling, reveling in the Slayer’s weakness, chomping at the bit and eager to end this farce of a truce. Meanwhile, William wouldn’t stop nattering in, ugh, iambic pentameter of all things, going on and on about star crossed lovers and tragic beauty. Of all the times for that wanker to raise his pathetic head. 

He would kill her. 

Right now.

“... Need a lift?” Spike asked instead, demon face melting away. 

The Slayer stared, doe eyes glistening and lower lip trembling. At last:

“I hate you.” 

Her voice broke toward the end. 

Spike stared back, and then snorted, turning away. He was evil. Evil! He didn’t need to put up with this disrespect. The Slayer should be grateful he wasn’t ripping her throat out. 

Whatever. Spike had what he’d come for, and the world was safe again. Bundling Dru closer, he began striding down the hall. Time to blow this joint. At _last_. Goodbye Sunnyhell, hello freedom. 

The Slayer followed him. Her heart thudded in rhythm with the stomping of his boots. They reached the DeSoto, and she moved toward the passenger seat. 

“Excuse me?” Spike asked, incredulous. “Shotgun is reserved for Dru and Dru alone.”

The Slayer had the temerity to pout at him, actually _pout_ , her lashes still dark and wet with tears. Well, he was a Big Bad, and impervious to such White Hat wiles. Spike drew himself up, adjusting his grip on Dru, awkwardly opening the door to the backseat. He held it for a second, realized he was being a ponce, and busied himself getting Dru settled in instead. 

If the Slayer had any thoughts on his car, on the windows painted black and papered over, she kept them to herself. Spike found himself aware of her on multiple levels, his demon screaming _fight_ and _danger_ and _food_ all in equal measure, while William simpered away, locked in his cage. Spike mentally told them both to sod off. And, unlike Angelus, he actually had some semblance of self-control.

The DeSoto revved to life. Spike groaned, satisfied, as the rumble of the engine worked its way up the leather seat to tremble through his undead body. He could see the Slayer in his rearview mirror, curled up with her feet tucked beneath her thighs, head resting against the window, expression closed off and brooding. No wonder her and the Great Forehead wound up together.

Spike slammed on the gas pedal and the car lunged forward, barreling through and bursting out the mansion walls to careen toward freedom. The Slayer yelped, an unseen weight pressing his headrest forward as she braced herself. 

“Was that _really_ necessary?” she asked, some of the fire returning to both her voice and her cheeks. 

Spike smirked, unrepentant. “Nah. Was fun, though.” 

Dru lolled in her seat, still out cold (well, colder), and Spike reached with one arm to embrace her. Make sure she was safe and comfortable, unnecessary as that may be.

He still watched the Slayer though. It was a nice bit of novelty, actually using his rearview mirror for once. She watched them, too, jaw locked and expression as close to murderous as a White Hat probably got. Spike heard her heart race, pumping all that delicious Slayer blood at an indignant mile a minute. 

“Where we headed, pet? Drop you off at your mum’s?” Spike drawled. 

“No. Take me to the bus stop,” answered the Slayer after a moment. 

Bossy bitch.

Spike frowned, then remembered he didn’t care. He growled softly, finding pleasure in watching her tense at the noise. Good. She should be nervous. 

“Looks like we’re not the only ones interested in skipping town, eh?” 

“Shut up, Spike.” 

He growled again, louder. She was really starting to push her luck. They didn’t speak further until Dru stirred, moaning into the crook of his arm. 

With a sigh, Spike leaned forward and knocked her out again. A good, clean strike to the back of the head. Dru went limp once more. 

“What is love,” said the Slayer, tonelessly. 

_Baby don’t hurt me._

Spike wasn’t about to play pop culture footsie with the Slayer, though. That was a line he refused to cross.

“You’re welcome,” he snapped. “Figured you’d want to avoid a fight in my car. Know I do.” The thought of cleaning blood out of the leather made him the vampire equivalent of nauseous. “Doesn’t mean I like hurting Dru, though, but I’ll do what—”

“Don’t.” 

Her voice was sharp and hard like flint. 

_Don’t compare what you did, what you have, to me and Angel. Yours is but a shadow._

The unspoken words hung heavy in the car. Suddenly Spike had the strong urge to pull over, throw the Slayer out, break her neck and suck her dry while the sun burned him to ash, truce be damned, Dru be damned—

What the bloody hell was wrong with him?

Spike relaxed his knuckle white grip on the steering wheel, the demon sliding off his face with a soft sigh. He never should’ve stayed, never should’ve offered. But it was too late now. Just get the Slayer away and get out of here. 

“Stop by the school,” said the Slayer, interrupting his thoughts. 

“Makin’ an awful lot of demands, pet.” 

Her pretty little mouth thinned. “It won’t take long.”

“Better not. Not a bloody taxi service.” 

The school would be easier to find, anyway. All that life desperately milling about. Spike could hear it and smell it from miles off. 

One bumpy ride later—he definitely hit the curb a few dozen times, and who knew what else, the Slayer’s glares becoming increasingly more reproachful—and they arrived at Sunnydale High. Last time Spike was here he’d gotten walloped over the head from behind with an ax. Had _nothing_ gone right since his arrival? 

Well, he’d healed Dru. That was something at least. Although Spike rather missed how dependent she’d been on him while she was sick. And when their situations had been reversed...

The Slayer slipped out of the car, damn near singeing him with a slice of sunlight in the process (her muttered ‘sorry’ was decidedly unapologetic), and Spike had half a mind to drive off and leave her there. Bitch could just as well walk the rest of the way. But instead, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, the scent of the Slayer lingering in his backseat. It’d take ages to scrub the stink out. 

Spike grabbed a crumpled, partially eaten bag of Funyuns tucked inside his dashboard. He’d sprinkled dried jalapeños in to give them an extra spicy kick. 

While he munched on his snack, Spike had the time to really digest everything that had happened to them. He realized, suddenly, that the Slayer was so angry not just because she was grieving, but because he, Spike, made it abundantly clear that even by vampire standards Angelus was off his rocker. It must just eat her up inside. 

The epiphany brought a wolfish grin on his face. Probably blamed herself, too. White Hats loved making themselves the center of everyone’s universe. Not that the PTB did much to dispel that notion. One in all the world and all that rot, and in the darkness fuck souled vampires soulless. It would get to anyone’s head. 

The door opened and the Slayer was back. 

“Right, let's—what are you _eating_?” The revulsion couldn’t have been more clear. 

Spike smirked lazily, crunching down on a ring. “Funyuns. Not interested in sharing, neither. Gimme a moment to finish.” 

Her nose crinkled in disgust as she slid into her seat. “Ugh.” 

He took his time, as loudly as possible, enjoying the sight of a steadily angrier Slayer silently raging in the backseat of his car. Armed with newfound knowledge, Spike decided to test his theory.

“Where you going, anyway, Slayer? Fancying Brazil for Dru ‘n me. Someplace exotic.” He took an exaggerated bite, chewing obnoxiously in between words. Spike hadn’t expected an answer, not a legit one anyway, but she surprised him.

“Somewhere where I don’t have to be anyone.” 

He twisted in his seat, staring at her, head cocked to the side. The tears were gone, although Spike still smelled traces of dried salt on her cheeks. She mostly just seemed tired, all the anger draining away like a punctured balloon. 

“LA would be a good choice, then. Easy place to disappear. Poetic, too, in its own way. Know this little spot called Helen’s Kitchen. They have the most delicious peach cobbler.” 

Spike paused dramatically for effect. The Slayer said nothing. Well, that wasn’t any fun. Growing bored, he moved to stuff his Funyuns back in his little stash of alcohol and snacks, hesitated, and then tossed the bag over his shoulder. To annoy the Slayer, of course, with his wanton littering. 

A pause. A crinkle of plastic. The Slayer tentatively nibbled at a dried, fried ring and pulled a face.

Spike drove off, flicking on the radio, blaring rock and roll in an effort to drown out the sound of the Slayer’s heartbeat, drown out the sound of her breathing and the sound of her eating his food. 

When they pulled up to the bus station, she didn’t leave right away. The Slayer hung just outside the door frame, leaving it open only a sliver so sunlight didn’t fall on either him or Dru. It was the most considerate thing she’d done, and also the bare minimum, so Spike didn’t dignify the action with a response (what would he have said, anyway? “Gee, thanks Slayer for not burning me to a right crisp.” Yeah, sure, never happening). 

“Spike,” she said.

“Slayer.” 

“... If I ever see you again, you’re dust.” 

He felt it again, the briefest flicker of admiration. This time not just from William, but William _and_ the demon. Spike ruthlessly stamped it out.

“Likewise. Just call me Dread Pirate Roberts.” 

Her face tightened. Then she slammed the door shut. 

…

On the outskirts of the city limits, a highway sign had been knocked down, covered in tire treads. 

_Now Leaving Sunnydale: Come Back Soon!_


End file.
